


Where the Water Meets the Mists

by Zykaben



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fae Peter Lukas, Lighthouse Keeper Martin Blackwood, M/M, No Fear Entities (The Magnus Archives), No Sexual Content, PeterMartin Week (The Magnus Archives), Romance, Supernatural Elements, We'll Get There I Promise, yet - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:48:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27546358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zykaben/pseuds/Zykaben
Summary: Martin, desperate to find a job that will allow him to pay for his mother’s care home fees and keep him off the street, applies for the position of a lighthouse keeper in the small town of Valeworth. To his surprise, he gets it.Something is strange about the lighthouse, though. It’s been abandoned for upwards of thirty years now, and there’s been a string of people in the area who have gone missing, seemingly vanishing into thin air.And, strangest of all, something keeps eating his canned peaches.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	Where the Water Meets the Mists

**Author's Note:**

> So this was very much _meant_ to be for PeterMartin week, and in a way it still very much is, but this somehow ended up transforming from a few snippets into a full-blown, multi-chaptered fic somewhere along in the planning process of Day 1. Anyway, here's a niche AU, I hope ya'll like it.
> 
> Also huge thanks to [Bloodsbane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bloodsbane/) for listening to me ramble about this AU and beta reading! This fic wouldn't be what it is without you :D

Valeworth was a small, coastal town, drenched in monochrome and mist. Some would say that it was more a loose collection of houses and other buildings than a proper town, the inhabitants suspicious of outsiders and neighbors alike. And even if a small rumor like that was best to treat as half-true at most, its existence at least suggested  _ something. _ There was no denying that it was a miserable little place, though, cold and damp as it was. It didn’t rain so much as the skies seemed to be perpetually overcast, the air hanging wet and heavy, clinging to skin and fabric. The thin pine forests that surrounded the town were no less foreboding, standing tall and dark, shifting in the chilled breeze. Overhead, ravens flapped their wings and let out hoarse cries, adding to the ambience of woe the town gave off. Given its general visage, Valeworth certainly seemed like a place of ill omen, that much was for sure. It was  _ not _ a place that Martin ever thought he would have visited willingly, much less lived in.

He was desperate, though.

Ever since Martin’s mum had moved into the nursing home in Devon, Martin’s funds had taken a hit. Not surprising, considering the fact that Martin had to pay the fees for the home out of pocket, but it meant that Martin’s current job of stocking inventory at the nearby retail store no longer paid enough for him to get by. He’d dipped into the meager amount of savings he had managed to accumulate over the years, but more often than not he found himself rationing or forgoing meals entirely just to make it to the next paycheck. It wasn’t sustainable.

So he’d sent in applications to any and every job listing he’d been able to find, along with his miserably sparse CV. None of the places he’d applied to had hired him, some not even contacting him to let him know he’d been rejected. That’s when he’d started lying, putting down whatever he could to make himself even just a bit more hirable. It hadn’t worked, much as Martin wished it had. He wasn’t surprised, though; the whole thing fell apart like a house of cards the moment it was put under any amount of scrutiny.

Which was why when Martin found the job listing for a lighthouse keeper in Valeworth that claimed no prior experience was needed, he thought it was too good to be true. It paid better than his current job and he would be allowed to live in the lighthouse that he tended to, free of charge with utilities included. That meant all he would have to worry about was food and paying the fees for his mother’s home. It also meant he’d be moving out of his flat but, well, Martin didn’t have much keeping him tied down now that his mum wasn’t with him.

Despite how strangely perfect it seemed—or maybe because of it—Martin applied as quickly as he could, not keen on losing the spot to anyone else who may have been in a similar situation.

The lack of qualifications required for the job should have been the first red flag. The second one came when Martin opened his inbox and found an email informing him that he’d gotten the job. Martin had scoured the message over and over, absolutely certain that he was missing  _ something. _ They couldn’t have accepted him that quickly, not without any follow-up or an interview or just…  _ something. _

But no. He hadn’t missed anything. He’d just… gotten the job. That was when Martin had started looking into Valeworth.

Pictures of the town certainly didn’t paint it as a charming or idyllic place, and the few things he’d managed to find about the place online had only confirmed that. It had a small harbor that was currently out of use and had been for the past three decades or so. Apparently, the lighthouse had shut down and without it, it had been too dangerous for ships to try and dock there. Why no one had hired a lighthouse keeper before this was a mystery to Martin, but ultimately one that he didn’t really care too much about. Especially with the pay and benefits being what they were.

So maybe it was stupid, and maybe it was reckless, but Martin had replied saying that he could start as soon as they needed him.

That was how Martin found himself in Valeworth not a week later, everything he owned packed up into boxes. He’d ended up hiring someone to help move everything since he didn’t own a car and hadn’t wanted to figure out what renting a vehicle for the purpose would entail. There hadn’t been much, all things considered, but it still felt right, like a proper bookend on the most recent chapter of his life.

Maybe he was being dramatic. Martin thought he was a bit entitled to it with this large of a change.

He wouldn’t be able to go to the lighthouse directly, though. First, he had to stop by the town hall in order to receive proper, formal instructions on what he’d be doing from day to day in the lighthouse, as well as pick up the keys to the place. The movers he’d hired—a pair of large, strong-looking men who’d introduced themselves as Breekon and Hope—had been kind enough to allow Martin to ride in the cabin of the truck with them, cramped as is it was, and had agreed to make the slight detour into the town proper before waiting to go to the lighthouse.

Martin didn’t have much money, but he’d be tipping them as generously as he could and leaving a nice review for them online.

The town hall looked old, as most town halls did, with faded bricks and white columns. Martin clutched at the umbrella he’d brought; there wasn’t quite enough rain that he needed to open it, so he was just left awkwardly holding onto it as he made his way inside.

There was no one there to greet him, but that was fine. He’d been given a room number to go to, and it was easy enough to find. When he stepped inside the small room, he saw a short man sitting in one of eight seats around a rectangular wooden table, a manilla folder placed in front of him. He looked up at the sound of Martin opening the door and quickly waved him over.

“Martin Blackwood?” the man asked before Martin had even closed the door behind him.

“Yes! It’s nice to meet you, um…”

“Mike Crew, town clerk,” Mike said. “Please, take a seat.”

Martin did so.

“Thank you for your quick acceptance of the position,” Mike continued once Martin had settled. “We’ve been looking to get the lighthouse back in operation for some time now, so we were very pleased to see your application.”

Mike paused, so Martin nodded, unsure if he was meant to say anything.

Mike didn’t seem to take note of Martin’s silence. “I know that the job of lighthouse keeper seems a bit archaic, and I suppose it is in a sense, but we really couldn’t afford to fully update the lighthouse. You know how funding these sorts of things is.”

Martin did not, but wisely held his tongue.

“In any event, you won’t be expected to maintain  _ everything _ on your own. All you’re really in charge of doing is keeping the lamp lit from sunset to sunrise and keeping the place clean and usable. If something goes wrong—broken window, plumbing issues, equipment broken beyond repair—then you can call me and I’ll send someone up to help you.”

“Oh.” That all sounded a lot easier than what the Google results Martin found had sugged. “Alright, that sounds—that sounds good. Thank you.”

Mike let out a dry laugh. “Yeah, we’re not in the nineteenth century anymore. Cars and mechanics and mobile phones and all that rot. Comes in handy. Here.” Mike plucked the manilla folder from the table and handed it to Martin. “Look through that. It has a full list of all your responsibilities and suggested schedule, as well as a few important numbers to call if you need anything. My own should be listed there. If everything looks to be in order and agreeable to you, then I’ll hand you the keys and wish you good luck.”

“One last chance to back out?” Martin joked.

“Something like that.”

Martin already knew he was going to accept from the moment he’d walked in, from the moment he’d packed everything up, from the moment he’d been chosen for the job. All the same, he opened the folder and carefully read through the papers, one at a time. When he looked up to nod at Mike, the man smiled for the first time since Martin had stepped into the room.

* * *

The lighthouse was less than four kilometers from the town which made for a short drive, but Martin knew it would be a long walk, especially when he had to go into town to get groceries and then haul them back. Maybe once he’d saved up enough money he could buy a car or something, or maybe just pay to get groceries delivered to him. That would be nice, having enough money to do something like that.

That could wait until later, though; they were here. Martin stepped out of the truck.

The lighthouse stood tall and pale, its once-pristine white paint weathered and chipped. Martin could hear the crash of waves against the side of the rocky cliff that the structure sat atop of, and could smell the salty tang of ocean air. At the base, seemingly connected to it, was what looked like a tiny, one-story house, equally as worn as everything else. 

Martin fished out the ring of keys that Mike had given him from his pocket and made his way to the only door he could see, the one in the smaller probably-attached building. After two wrong guesses, the right key slid into the lock, opening it with an audible  _ click! _ when Martin turned the key. Martin opened the door and stepped inside, promptly covering his mouth as he coughed, dust filling his lungs. The place looked like it hadn’t been used in ages, which made sense. Still, Martin had expected that Mike or someone else would have cleaned the place before he got there, but what did he know? Maybe this was just a normal part of being a lighthouse keeper.

The interior was empty and gloomy, consisting only of one rugged table that stood unsteadily on the concrete floor. There were two windows, one by the entrance and one on the left wall, sunlight straining in through dirtied glass. The whole space was maybe five meters wide and four deep, and that was if Martin was being generous. 

On the far wall was another locked door that, after fiddling with the keys again, Martin pushed open to reveal the ground floor of the actual lighthouse. A curved, metal staircase clung to the wall, winding upwards into the next floor—the kitchen, if Martin was remembering correctly. The floor was the same hard concrete as before, but there was an old carpet that covered a good portion of it, too. There was another table, this one in slightly better condition, and three wooden chairs tucked in around it. There was a desk that was pressed against a section of open wall under a landing in the staircase, as well as a couch that was a meter or two to the right of it. Even with the same dim light and covering of dust, it felt distinctly homier than the previous area.

Martin itched to explore the rest of the lighthouse, to see what else he had to work with, but decided against it. Breekon and Hope had already waited for him while he talked to Mike; Martin didn’t need to be an even larger thorn in their sides. Clamping down his curiosity for the moment, Martin walked back outside.

With the help of Breekon and Hope, Martin was able to swiftly move all of his earthly possessions into the ground floor of the lighthouse. Not that he had that many in the first place.

When Breekon—or was it Hope? They looked painfully similar—placed down the last box, Martin offered the two of them a smile. “Thank you both so much, I really appreciate it.”

“Just doing our job,” Hope said, cockney accent sounding just as fake as when Martin had first heard it.

“But you’re welcome,” Breekon added.

Their way of talking, like they were finishing one another’s thoughts, still left Martin both impressed and a bit uneasy. “Is there anything I can do for you before you go? I could at least make you some tea.”

Breekon and Hope exchanged a look, a silent conversation seeming to pass between them. In the end, they both shook their heads.

“That’s kind of you,” Breekon said.

“We really ought to be going, though.”

“More work to do and places to go.”

Martin nodded. “Right, of course. Take care, yeah? And thanks again.”

They shared another long look with one another and it was starting to genuinely creep Martin out now. Was there something that strange about what he was saying?

“You watch out for yourself,” Hope told him.

“Especially here,” Breekon continued. “Lot of disappearances ’round here.”

Martin felt his eyes widen. “Wh—disappearances?”

“Folks coming up to the area,” Breekon said.

“And then they’re just gone.”

“Like they vanished into thin air.”

“No signs of any of them ever again,” Hope finished.

Martin swallowed, suddenly feeling colder than before. “O-oh. That’s… um.”

The two movers both nodded in agreement, apparently not needing Martin to verbalize it. “Stay safe,” Breekon warned.

“And if you need to move back out, just call.”

“R-right. Um.” Martin took in as deep a breath as he could. “Thank you. For everything. Really. I’ll be sure to be careful.”

Apparently satisfied, Breekon and Hope both gave Martin one last nod before heading out. Martin waited until he heard them start the engine before rushing to open his boxes.

“Where is it, where is it,” he chanted under his breath as he searched through the boxes. “Come on, I know I packed it! It’s here, I know it is, where is it—”

Martin’s hand settled on something smooth, heavy, and curved. With a strangled noise of triumph, Martin yanked the iron horseshoe out from the box. He quickly found his hammer and the small tin of nails he’d brought and marched to the outside of the lighthouse.

Martin knew he was being silly, knew that he was being stupid and paranoid. Nailing an iron horseshoe above his door wouldn’t do anything to protect him, the same way throwing any salt he spilled over his shoulder wouldn’t help him, the same way that whistling indoors wouldn’t actually invite evil or bad luck. It was stupid in the same way that  _ all _ of Martin’s superstitions were. He  _ knew _ that they weren’t real, but he’d grown up believing them thanks to his mum: she was even more superstitious than  _ Martin _ was, wonder of wonders. She’d pointed out every black cat to Martin before his father had left, whispering that they were good luck, told him to keep his umbrella closed indoors because it would be very bad luck for them if he ever opened it inside.

So sure, Martin didn’t believe in them, not really, but abiding by them and acting like he had  _ some _ level of control over his fortune was still comforting, still made him feel more secure. That probably wasn’t great, thinking that he was safer from disappearing just because he'd put up a horseshoe, but it was better than having a panic attack.

Once the horseshoe was securely in place, Martin stepped back to admire his handiwork. Even with how hastily he’d put the horseshoe up, it wasn’t that crooked, the grey of the iron blending in with the tarnished white of the paint. It almost looked like it belonged there, as though Martin hadn’t just put it there.

Feeling better and foolish for it in equal measure, Martin resolved to put off worrying anymore about Breeon and Hope’s warning until tomorrow For now, it was getting late and it had been a long, exhausting day. Martin would make himself dinner, turn in for the night, and then start up his official duties as a lighthouse keeper tomorrow.

Much more calmly this time, Martin went through the boxes again, looking for the one he’d had the foresight to pack with the food leftover in his cupboards. He found it soon enough, pulling out cans of soups, canned peaches, some boxed spaghetti noodles, a jar of store-bought marinara sauce, and a couple of bags of crisps. In the end, he decided to take the can of chicken noodle soup, something that would be filling enough without leaving him with too many dishes to wash. He grabbed one of his spoons and his can opener from the same box and went up the stairs.

Sure enough, the first floor was home to the kitchen that housed basic necessities: laminate countertops, cupboards, a refrigerator, an oven, an electric stovetop, and a sink. All of the appliances looked old, which wasn’t surprising given how long they must have been there. Martin was nervous they wouldn’t start up, but to his relief the stovetop and sink at least seemed to be in working order. He opened his can of soup and placed it on the stovetop, giving his spoon a cursory rinse while he waited for it to heat up.

One quick run back downstairs for a bowl, several stirs, and five minutes later, Martin found himself sitting down to eat his meal at the table on the ground floor. He took a spoonful of hot soup, closing his eyes as it warmed him from the inside. The second bite was just as comforting, but on the third he felt a thought forming on the edge of his consciousness, something nervous and fretful.

Martin had only ever moved twice in his life that he could remember: once before his father had left, and once after, when he and his mum had needed to sell their home to move into a flat they could afford. Both times, Martin remembered watching his mother set aside an extra portion of the first meal they’d had and leave it on the windowsill, explaining that it was for the faeries, should they choose to accept it. The food hadn’t been touched either time.

Just another dumb, silly superstition. It was fanciful thinking at best, but Martin still found himself popping open a can of peaches and walking into the dingy side-building (he  _ really _ needed to figure out what that bit was called) connected to the lighthouse. He opened one of the windows and, when it didn’t come crashing back down, placed the can of peaches there.

“Hello,” Martin whispered into the evening. “I don’t know if you like peaches or not, but if you do, then you’re free to take them. Um. Thank you.”

The same sense of calm and foolishness swept over Martin as he hurried back to eat his meal before it grew cold. He looked forward to having the untouched peaches as a dessert.

Soon, Martin’s bowl was empty and his stomach was full. He leant back in his chair as best he could, letting out a deep sigh. He was jittery and tired all at once, fidgeting with his fingers. He couldn’t help but pull out his phone and unlock it, running his teeth over his bottom lip as his thumb hovered over the call button.

Before he could think too much about it, he tapped it.

He only had to wait two rings until his call was picked up. “Lincombe Manor Care Centre in Devon,” said a perky, feminine voice on the other end. “How can I help you?”

“Hi!” Martin said, wincing at how high-pitched his voice was. “Hi, I wanted to know if I could speak to Maria Blackwood? I’m her son, Martin. Martin Blackwood.” Martin laughed, hoping it didn’t sound as nervous as he was.

“Of course!” the receptionist chirped. “Wait just a second while I check with her, m’kay?”

“Yeah, sounds good,” Martin said. A moment later, the hold music began to play.

Martin waited with bated breath, hoping against hope that his mum would want to talk to him. She usually didn’t—and that was fine, of course it was, she needed her space—but maybe she would. Maybe she’d decide to talk to Martin and he could tell her how drastically he’d changed his life so that he could afford the care she deserved, that he was doing his best despite it all. Maybe tell her about the horseshoe he’d put up or the food he’d left out for the faeries, she might actually like that—

“Sorry, Mr. Blackwood,” the receptionist said, tone polite and sympathetic. “Maria doesn’t seem up for talking today.”

“Right.” Martin closed his eyes and choked back the burning lump in his throat. “Thank you.”

“Have a nice day, Mr. Blackwood.”

“Yeah, you too.”

Martin hung up. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and took in a shuddering breath. He wouldn’t cry, he refused to. So mum hadn’t wanted to talk to him today. Really, it was his own fault for getting his hopes up. He knew how she was, tired and cranky. And she was allowed to be! She was old and sick and having a rough go of it. So if she didn’t want to talk to Martin, that was fine. It was fine. 

He was  _ fine. _

Martin forced himself to take in a deep breath and let it out slowly, then another, and another. He sat there, hunched over in his seat and counting his breaths, until he felt like he wasn’t about to burst out sobbing at any moment. He stood up and sniffled a bit, wiping at his dry face.

He could really go for those peaches now. They’d probably be wet and soggy from the mist, but it wasn’t like they weren’t swimming in their own juices already. Besides, having anything to focus on would be better than being alone with his own thoughts right now.

Martin went back out to go and grab the can of peaches from the windowsill and—

They were gone.

Martin blinked. Rubbed at his eyes and opened them again. The peaches were gone.

Tentatively, Martin picked up the empty tin and looked it over. Not even a single scrap of fruit was left and, though water was beading on the metal of the can, it looked like all of the juice was gone, too. Almost as if someone had drank it.

Martin shook his head again, poked his head out the window to see if any of the peach slices had fallen to the ground. He didn’t know how that would have made anything any less bizarre, finding some of it on the ground, but it turned out that line of thought wasn’t even worth pursuing because there was  _ nothing. _

“Could’ve been an animal,” Martin muttered to himself. Even as he said it, he didn’t believe it. What kind of animal would eat the peaches from the windowsill, drink all the juice, and leave absolutely nothing behind? “A particularly well-mannered squirrel, maybe?”

Another idea bubbled up in Martin’s mind, one that he dismissed out of hand and deliberately did not allow himself to think about. He wasn’t about to get caught up in some wild fiction he’d invented just because  _ one _ slightly odd thing had happened. No, Martin was more rational than that. 

He put the empty can of peaches on the run-down table, closed the window and locked the door to the outside. He picked up the can and threw it into the rubbish bin he’d found tucked under the desk, along with his empty can of soup. After a second or two of hesitation, Martin locked the door in the lighthouse, too. He knew logically that if something was able to get through one locked door, it could probably get through another just fine, but it was worth it for the relief Martin felt swelling up in his chest.

It only took a few more minutes of rummaging through his boxes and the one suitcase he brought for Martin to find his bedsheets and his nightshirt. Well, not really a nightshirt, exactly, just a soft t-shirt that was three sizes too big for him. Those things in hand, he lugged himself up the stairs. By the time he reached the third floor, Martin found himself breathing more heavily from exertion. He’d get used to it soon enough, he supposed.

He unlocked and pushed open the door to reveal the first and largest of the two bedrooms in the lighthouse. As he expected, there was very little there besides the bed itself, made up neatly and—surprise, surprise—covered in dust. A window opened up towards the ocean at the head of the bed, letting the final, weak rays of sunlight through. Martin fumbled for a lightswitch, flipping it on when he found it. A bit more poking around the room revealed a nightstand next to the bed, behind which he found an outlet that he plugged his phone charger into. There was also a free-standing wardrobe full of empty hangers, which would prove useful when Martin eventually dragged his suitcase up here.

That was for later, though. Now, Martin stripped the bed and replaced the old, dusty sheets and blankets with his own. He kicked off his trousers, tore off his shirt, and, after a bit of a struggle, removed his binder. He slipped into his nightshirt, turned off the lights, and flopped onto the bed, body weighed down after a very long, very tiring day. He curled up under the sheets and closed his eyes.

He fell asleep to the distant sound of waves and beginnings of rain drumming against the window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Peter on-screen yet, unfortunately. We'll get there though, don't worry.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Please be sure to kudos, bookmark, and leave a comment if you enjoyed this fic!
> 
> You can find me [here on tumblr.](https://zykaben.tumblr.com) Feel free to hit me up there!


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